


Empire (Built for Two)

by BlueSimba, hokshi



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aphrodisiacs, Chastity Device, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Orgasm Denial, Yandere, kink tags tba for surprise, phantom thieves sided with the grail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-07-01 22:25:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15783333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSimba/pseuds/BlueSimba, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hokshi/pseuds/hokshi
Summary: Equilibrium only works if you're equal.





	1. Aristocracy and the Dull of Diamonds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ActuallyAndroid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyAndroid/gifts).



> one day, hokshi and I decided actuallyandroid needed to die, so we're doing just that in the form of this fic

The orchestra’s voice is a dewy yellow as the bows ride the strings. Sponsors, donors, anyone who’s got a face to recognize are waltzing across the ballroom floor, steps precise, practiced, and they smile politely whenever they’re caught spreading gossip like gospel. The hall is tall, enough to match all the zeros in their bank accounts if they were stacked on top of each other.  _ Really, really tall. _

 

A fleet of those practiced smiles are shot your way. Your teeth sink on your tongue to keep the flying thoughts at bay, but Akira’s well-placed hand on the small of your back reminds you that the smiles are for him. Of course they are. His teeth are a shimmering white when he wordlessly smiles back. Tentatively, hand urging you forward, you step foot in the ballroom with him at your side. Small victories.

 

Behind you and Akira, the rest of the Phantom Thieves naturally meld with the atmosphere—Ann being swept away by film critics; she matches their lively chatter with some of her own and an aura so bright her recent Golden Globe is dull in comparison. Yusuke admires the larger-than-life art spanning the walls of the ballroom, and the dispersion of the Phantom Thieves is immediate.

 

Briefly, you wonder if they were ever with you at all, but the patch of blond hair glued to Akira’s other side is a reminder that they were. Ryuji grumbles, kicks his foot over the pristine tiles, and scans the room before slipping his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t wear his gray suit. The suit wears him.

 

“Stinkin’ rich people,” Ryuji mutters.

 

_ You’re rich, too, Ryuji,  _ you want to say _. _

 

The thought evaporates when a man bounds over to you, a spring in each beat of his steps and a red bowtie fastened to his neck that probably contends for most expensive thing in the room.

 

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance!” he says, but the words fall from his lips and land on your skin when he kisses your hand. His lips are too wet, and your eyebrows pop up as you owlishly blink. With only a meager list of interviews to your name, he greets you first? Not Akira, the man whose name spans countries?

 

Your hands are clammy, and the words flop in your mouth.

 

Before you can force out a response, Akira extends his hand to the man, a strung-up smile on his face. “Pleasure to meet you, Yuuto. Your daughter is feeling better, I hope?”

 

Yuuto doesn’t brighten. His grin falls. The wrinkles on his forehead are like craters now, and when a server passes by with champagne flutes on a tray, he takes one reflexively, downing it. Stress drags down his face. “Very much so, Mr. Kurusu, now that the witch of a nurse is gone. You have my thanks.”

 

_ Akira, he addresses him so casually. By his first name, no less.  _

 

Letting go of Yuuto’s hand, Akira gives him a nod, his perfectly manicured black hair bouncing as he does so. “Stepping in was the only thing we could do in good conscience, Yuuto. That nurse was a threat to all her patients.”

 

“And if her practices couldn’t kill people, her scowl would! Yikes!” Ryuji cuts in, an easygoing smile lighting his face.

 

The joke falls flatter than the nurse’s victim’s hearts when they flatlined.

 

Yuuto coughs and glances at you before focusing again on Akira. His eyes make you want to tiptoe around the ballroom so he can’t see you.

 

“Regardless, you have my gratitude, Mr. Kurusu.”

 

A nameless group of men approaches, their eyes quick to pass over you and glue to Akira. Suits identical to each other, they can’t compete with Akira’s well put-together look. The red pins on his suit are a nice touch, too. 

 

Ushering to them, Yuuto strings together a spiel. “These are my contacts I informed your lovely date of. I assume she relayed the information?”

 

You’re. Right. Here.

 

You spot Akira eyeing you from the side, and you know he can read your shifting face, eyebrows knitted together and mouth pursed.

 

“I assure you, Mr. Yamato,” you edge your way in, voice dipped in a sickeningly-sweet honey, “I did as soon as you contacted me. As the channel between the Phantom Thieves and the public, I am  _ very _ good at my job.”

 

The pleased expression crossing Akira’s face makes your heart blush.

 

“Oh.” Yuuto gives you a concerned look, hand on his heart. He does a good job of faking that concern. “That wasn’t my intention, but I apologize if I offended you. Your skills are remarkable for your age.”

 

Before you can bite out the fact that, yes, you do have a name and that yes, your age doesn’t equal your skills, Yuuto is whisked away by the current of people in the gala. The contacts he so eagerly introduced are whispering to each other.

 

Akira’s hand on your back wraps around your waist as he pulls you closer, your dress shimmering under the lights as he does so. Your head rests on his chest, and his heartbeat sounds in your head—one, two, one, two, it beats. He’s warm.

 

“You did well,” he whispers, kissing your forehead.

 

He makes your strumming feelings clog in your throat, and you breathe a sigh of relief when you have his stamp of approval; it’s a bright red stamp you’d pin to your record if you could.

 

“I had to. You were watching.”

  
  


*

  
  


"I'd like to thank you all for joining us in celebrating this benevolent cause tonight! Our company has been hosting this fundraising campaign for over a decade now, so I'm honored to see everyone aid and support us this year! And to all our generous donors..." 

 

"It's nice to be invited to these things, but isn't it flashy to be holding such an extravagant party to celebrate a charity event? All the money put into organizing this event could've been donated..." Ann deadpans as Yuuto runs on with his speech. 

 

"I agree," Yusuke adds in, "The concept of this gala showcases the so-called generosity of the donors for public consumption, rather than the causes they raise the money for." 

 

"Inari, I'm pretty sure your personal galleries are just as gaudy as this one is." 

 

Yusuke's eyes widen in outrage, "I beg your pardon! My galleries are organized and designed with utmost class in order to showcase the true beauty of my work. The choice of frame is something that complements the art itself!" 

 

"Yeah, yeah." Futaba eyes roll in a way that exudes the youth that makes this group so lively. "You get one art dealer and suddenly you're 'classy.' Gimme a break." 

 

"Actually, I'm speaking with several other dealers these days. Perhaps not with contractual intentions, but they do deem my skills worthy of scouting, and they're appealing to me for use of my artwork in other mediums. One of them being a film that Ann was casted for, actually." Yusuke's haughtiness can't be detected in his serene voice, but it's strikingly clear in his posture. His head is held high, his gaze distant, as if he doesn't have time to be entertaining the worldly pleasures below him. 

 

"Seriously?" Ryuji gulps down his third serving of horderves and drops the emptied plate onto a waiter's passing tray. "Way to go, man! You're making it big, real quick." 

 

"I think we all are." Makoto chimes in with her calm, thoughtful serenity, "Although I was weary at first about conceding to Yaldabaoth, things have really be turning out well for... all of us." 

 

"Got that right!" Ryuji exclaims too loudly to be appropriate during someone else's speech, "I'm being hounded down by chicks all the time, it's fuckin' crazy! Talk shows keep asking me to make appearances and crap, too. They can't get enough of me and the Phantom Thieves." 

 

"I would still advise that you be careful when you make public appearances, Ryuji." Haru pipes up, looking every bit like the young heiress she is in her formal gown and shoulder scarf with a glass of wine cupped between her petite fingers, "It's fine to popularize the Phantom Thieves, but remember we still have to keep our methods under wraps." 

 

"I got it, I got it." The blonde stuffs his hands in his suit pockets, sighing at the nagging reminder. You chuckle behind your hand at his inelegant presentation in a setting like this. His signature hunched posture and speaking habits have become quite the internet craze over the past year or so of the Phantom Thieves rising to world-class fame.

 

Akira embraces that small laugh as he tugs you just an inch closer to his side, and when you look up, you find him smiling fondly down at you. It's a small, almost innocent smile that quirks just at the corners of his lips, but it sends outstanding shudders down your spine nonetheless. Although you're unable to match his effect, you offer a small smile back. 

 

He leans down slowly, about to offer you a kiss, when--

 

"--And most of all, I'd like to thank the group that really gave us the extra popularity boost this year to have raised this record-breaking amount: The Phantom Thieves!" Yuuto announces, bringing everyone's attention to the group of individuals surrounding you. 

 

The room booms with applause and nods and smiles full of respect, admiration, gratitude. Everything that they deserve, really. "I'd like to ask the leader of our esteemed group of justice to join me up here for a few words. Mr. Kurusu Akira!" 

 

Akira is loathe to abandon your side. The stiffness in his body communicates to you the absolute irritation he has but won't allow to pass onto his expression. Gently, he slides his hand off your hip to the small of your back once again, spoiling you with another soft peck at the top of your head to reassure you he'll be back soon. 

 

The crowd loves him. Anyone would be stupid not to, if you're frank. His humble silence and echoing mystique draw people to him, magnetize curiosity and desire to be around him. You probably stole all the luck on this earth for this man to want you and keep you by his side. 

 

Akira's speech is simple, calculated but natural. He only uses a small handful of words with each sentence, but they all weigh so significantly upon the audience's ears. Now that's a man of power if you've ever seen one. 

 

A persistent buzzing rings from your clutch, so you take out your phone to see the caller ID of a familiar confidante. Quickly scoping the room to see that everyone is preoccupied in awe with Akira, you slip away from the masses towards the tall golden-framed window until you escape onto the white marble balcony. 

 

"Mishima, what is it? You know we're at the gala right now." you assert into the phone. 

 

"I know, I know. My bad." He doesn't sound apologetic at all, but he hasn't ever sounded anything reminiscent of humble since he published his book. "But I need to get an approval to release the details of a recent criminal whose heart was stolen. Are the others with you right now?" 

 

You hold back an exasperated sigh, "Can't this wait until tomorrow?" 

 

"All I need is the verbal approval from the Phantom Thieves themselves! I wanted to get started on this piece so I can make it for this issue for the upcoming month." He's gotten rather demanding since he got hired for that big-shot magazine, but you suppose he can't escape the pressure of competition, even after shooting to fame. "Come on, baby doll, just hand the phone over to them real quick, and I'll be good to go!" 

 

"Did you really just call me  _ 'baby doll' _ ?" And did he actually think it would work? The urge to roll your eyes and snuff at him tickles at you like a feather, but you will the itch away. "Whatever, I'll ask in a bit and just text you the answer. Which case are we talking about here?" 

 

Before you can hear Mishima's answer, your vision blurs in marble white and moonlit shrubbery as you're twirled around into Akira's embrace with his one arm. The other, he uses to pluck your phone out of your hand and take over your call, "You're talking about Tengo Inc., aren't you?" Akira's voice is chilled and smooth as he speaks, but his eyes are dangerously neutral as they dig into yours. They look that much darker with the splash of red on his gloved hand that holds your phone beside his face. 

 

You can't hear Mishima's end of the conversation anymore, but it's not like you'd be able to focus on him anyway with how close Akira has pressed himself to you. The marble of the balcony railing is large and smooth, but the press of Akira's hips against yours is strong enough to make you cry out in discomfort. 

 

"Declined." Akira announces into your phone. You gasp, a purely reflexive catch of breath. He doesn't sound happy. "Work on your timing. And your restraint." 

 

Slowly, he brushes your cheek with the back of his gloved fingers oh-so slowly as he places the phone down on the wide rail cap. And just as slowly, his leg comes to nestle between your thighs, catching on the skirt of the gown and pushing you further back against the railing as his foot comes to rest between the balusters. 

 

A whimper slips out from your lips before his mouth even brushes against them. Gentle fingers lift your chin up for you to stare unabashedly into Akira's depth-less gray eyes. Your legs twitch excitedly around the thigh that's lodged between them, and your hands are clutching onto his shoulders with brazen strength. 

 

You're gasping against his lips as he leans down lower,  _ lower _ . Just a little bit closer... 

 

Sweet, so delicately sweet, his kiss. Coated in such perfect satisfaction for your longing lips to taste. The moan you relinquish to him is loud and bold, unashamed. You realize now how tightly he's been stringing you along all evening, winding you up just so he can break you down. Brokenness never tasted so good. 

 

He pulls away once more, making sure you're looking at him when he says, "You're no one's doll." And the faint muffled sound coming from behind you reveals to you that Akira didn't hang up. And that Mishima is still on the line. 

 

With that realization, his next words resonate that much stronger, "No one's, but mine." 

  
  


*

  
  


When you dance with Akira, when your feet feel like they ghost over the tile, or when your hand snuggly rests in his—everything is right with the world. The palaces don’t exist, the shadows are nightmares squashed by daylight, and the stuffy atmosphere in the ballroom dissipates. He cocoons you in a world specifically made for you. The hums in his throat are music to your ears. The words he lets slip are like harp strings being strummed.

 

He deals you affection, and—as you spin, as your dress kicks up to spin with you—you lap it up, relishing the way you both hide away from the busy world in each other. The thought of that affection stacking like a debt doesn’t cross your mind.

 

The orchestra plays, the other guests disappear, but as you’re mid twirl, you catch the melancholic glance Ryuji throws at you and Akira. Your eyes meet Ryuji’s and the flustered glow he tries to keep under wraps is unmistakable. His electric blue tie is the last you see of him before he sprints off to find Ann.

 

Akira calls your name.

 

You blink. You’re not sure how many times.

 

“Yes?” you say, attention back to Akira.

 

“Distracted?”

 

“No?”

 

Humming, his fingers drum on your waist, but he doesn’t say anything else. There’s an edge to his eyes as he watches you. You’re not sure if you want to fold to the pressure gliding over your skin or fake your way through it.

 

Your feet dance through the motions (those dance practices really, really came in handy), and the slit of your dress lets your thigh peek out. His fingers trickling up that skin, sluggishly, teasingly, is a welcomed surprise.

 

You decide to fake your way through the stockpiling pressure.

 

Yuuto’s nameless contacts make their way over, again, gradually through the next few dances. When they’re “miraculously” next to you both again, you hear a single word over and over again: investments. Looking to make a deal. Profit. And with how they’ve been vultures circling the ballroom all night, they’re definitely wanting to wiggle their way in the Phantom Thieves’ ranks.

 

Rumbling, your stomach flops on itself. The embarrassed heat, whether Akira can see it or not, is noticeable. The amused glint in his eyes tells you as much.

 

Your eyes slink over to the refreshments table. The muffins are stacked, the drinks are sparkling (even from all the way over here!), and Futaba taps away on her phone while pocketing some of the food.

 

_ “Samples,”  _ she’d say if you questioned her,  _ “they’re samples. For my taste buds. And stomach.” _

 

_ Perfect. _

 

“Go on,” Akira says. You don’t even need to say anything and he already knows.

 

“Be back in a minute!”

 

Giving him one last look as you dash over to the table, you swear you see the mirth in his eyes vanish in a second. The contacts hovering around him pounce as soon as you’re a step out of the picture.

 

You think the table is a mirage when you stand in front of it in full. The word  _ variety _ doesn’t begin to describe the platters laid out, the flavors that jump out to your nose, to your eyes, making your mouth water and you gulp without realizing it.

 

A burst of laughter erupts next to you. Women holding their drinks, men holding their drinks, they’re all bubbling with laughter when Ryuji lets loose a whip and a nae nae for them. Their jewelry and pins may glitter, but Ryuji’s megawatt grin puts them to shame. His laugh could beat out the orchestra playing.

 

Then, he sees you. Then, his grin is scrubbed from his face. The way his face sinks, that melancholic expression is back. No one around him notices. They keep laughing, eyes welded shut, with tears being the only things to slip through.

 

No one notices. Not Futaba, whose head perks up when she reads a message on her phone, then bolting to the bathroom so quickly that she’s basically a whirlwind. Not Haru, who’s mobbed by her father’s former friends, offering their condolences when they see fit (when they think there’s an opportunity for  _ friendship _ ).

 

Pretending you don’t notice is the easiest thing to do. Your fingers snatch a nearby muffin (golden, baked to golden brown perfection), and it’s squishy between your fingers.

 

It isn’t enough, unfortunately, because suddenly Ryuji is right next to you. His electric blue tie is still, well, electric; his eyes aimlessly roam over the table, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He coughs.

 

“. . .Hey,” he starts. He keeps his eyes trained on the table to avoid yours.

 

The gulp plunging down your throat is telling.

 

“Uh, hey?” Your feet shift awkwardly. The muffin crumbles in your hand. Oh, you’re crushing it.

 

He runs his hand through his hair, distressed. “Look, you know I’m not good at beatin’ around the bush.”

 

_ Are you good at beating around any bush? _ Maybe that’s too rude, especially when you see the nerves joyriding on his skin.

 

“That’s pretty obvious, Ryuji.” You put on your best adult voice, turning toward him. “What’s up?”

 

“You and Akira.” He tries to shake the tension out of his shoulders. “You doin’ okay?”

 

The question pulls a trigger in you. Your eyes are wide. Your breath caught in your throat. It sends your mind into a frenzy. A hot frenzy that shoots through all your veins, that electrocutes your brain, that paralyzes you.

 

“We are.” You lick your lips. “Why?”

 

He sighs. You feel the weight on your shoulders.

 

“It’s your relationship and all, but. . .” he trails of and scratches his head again. “Look, I just wanna make sure you’re in a good relationship. Nothin’ bad.”

 

Denial is the first stage. It’s when you want to sputter out all the half-finished thoughts in your head for some semblance of an answer. After a second, the thoughts slow down, and you’re able to pick them apart and read them. Then comes the questioning.

 

_ We are, aren’t we? We have to be. I wouldn’t let it get too far, I know it. Right? Has it gone too far without me realizing it? Maybe I should— _

 

A familiar arm slinks around your waist.

 

“Everything all right, darling?” Akira’s smooth voice sails through your ears. His words use your ears like canals. You let him pull you close. The thoughts are zapped from your might at his mere touch.

 

“Everything’s good,” you say. You’re not sure who you say it to.

 

Ryuji scratches the back of his neck and doesn’t meet Akira’s piercing eyes. “I gotta, uh,” he starts, with his eyes zipping over everything, “I gotta take a leak. See you both later!” A second later and he’s gone.

 

“Don’t take everything he says too seriously, darling.”

 

The thoughts Ryuji planted in your head start to bud again. You give Akira the answer he wants to hear. “Okay. I trust you.”


	2. A Netocracy of Broken Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part two of actuallyandroid's death: the build

Akira arrives home at exactly 7 ‘o clock. On the dot. He’s always been meticulous about coming back home to see you on time; religious, even. You’re only aware of his impeccable punctuality because you’re stuck lounging around in his condo all day, occasionally replying to emails or browsing through case files you’ve written up. 

****

“Hello, darling.” he walks over to the dining table where you’re sitting to garnish his greeting with a kiss to your cheek. 

****

“Hi,” you smile against the press of his lips on your skin, your eyes even flutter closed for a moment to relish in the affection. Affection that he never fails to shower you with. 

****

_ “I just wanna make sure you’re in a good relationship. Nothin’ bad.”  _

****

No, there’s nothing ‘bad’ about being with Akira. On the contrary, he’s really everything a girl could ask for. Observant, smart, affectionate, kind, well-mannered, charismatic… so many things. Up until this point, you haven’t detected any red flags even from a man who decorates himself in red. 

****

“Is that curry I smell?” he saunters to the kitchen after slipping his coat off. You take the time to admire his slender frame in his casual attire. He had gone out to another smithing workshop today, so he dressed in his usual street clothes.  _ Handsome _ , you remember to add to the list. 

****

“Yup, donkatsu this time.” you slide out of your chair to join him in the kitchen, “I was waiting for you to come home first to fry it though.” 

****

A fond smile and a gentle hug from behind, Akira keeps his arms wrapped around your waist as you move about the kitchen to heat up the oil and take out the marinated pork cutlets. His touch is a constant and fixed presence on your body the entire time. He offers to make better use of his hands to help you, but you turn him down each time, “I’m happy to have something to do.” 

****

_ Finally _ , your mind is quick to add before you can stop the thought. You’re surprised at how dissatisfied it sounds, even if it’s just in your head. 

****

The pork cutlets sizzle like pop rocks in the pan of oil, and Akira tilts his head into your neck to pepper a few kisses along your skin. “How was your day?” his breaths are soft, gentle as he relaxes his chin onto your shoulder. 

****

Your eyes stay focused on the slab of meat as it deep-fries, but your mind wanders to the complete emptiness of your day. Idleness is not uncommon to your routine. In fact, you’d say idleness  _ is  _ your routine. Perhaps that’s why your eagerness to jump into a task as menial as cooking came out like a bite. 

****

“It was okay. Didn’t do much.” Actually, you do almost nothing each and every day, but the Phantom Thieves’ popularity and Akira’s insistent support is why your income is so steady. Most of your duties just involve minimal bouts of communication with public representatives on behalf of the Phantom Thieves. But because each of the members have their own channels of communication and their individual business and career ventures to organize, there isn’t much you need to do other than send declining answers. 

****

The excess oil drips off to splash back into the pan when you pick up the cooked slab of pork. You let them rest on the cooling rack for a minute or so while you assemble the rice and curry onto two plates. “It smells delicious. I always look forward to this.” Akira hums against your ear, and you smile at the compliment. 

****

Even though this mundane activity is pretty much the most exciting part of your day, Akira’s praise does send your heart and stomach into flutters. Your vision fogs in cherry blossom pink when he feeds you adoration like that, and appreciative mewls fall from your lips like the petals from trees at the end of spring. 

****

Dinner is pleasant, and finished off with a black and white film on the sofa, where you’re tucked underneath Akira’s arm like you were fitted for it. Pleasant, safe, comfortable. 

****

_ Also interchangeable with routine, trivial, boring _ … Your lip is caught between your teeth as the rebellious thoughts leak out of the back of your mind. 

****

Okay, sure, this isn’t the most exciting or productive life you could be living, but you’re not unhappy. Akira is always quick to offer you anything you want, or to whisk you away on a lavish vacation, or to pamper you with affection regardless of the setting. The amount of care he gives you would turn anyone green in jaded envy. This is the life of luxury many would die for, so you should be grateful you get to sit beside this great man with your head tucked between his neck and shoulder. 

****

“Shall we bathe and head to bed?” he offers as the credits begin rolling on the large, flat screen HDTV. 

****

Your answer is suspended on your tongue when you check the new notification that blinks your phone to life. The name of the sender is enough to make you cautiously lock the screen and turn it over onto its face on the sofa. Your arms move in big, casual movements as you stretch them around Akira’s body and sit upright, “Actually, I think I’m going to head home tonight. There’s something I want to take care of and you should probably rest too. You went to a silversmithing workshop today, didn’t you?” 

****

Skepticism. It’s subtle, but it’s there on his face. You’ve known Akira long enough to learn how to detect the slightest changes in his expression to gauge his emotions. And his ambiguous doubt at your sudden request to go home when you practically live here with him in this condo is not necessarily uncalled for. “What could you possibly need to take care of?” 

****

_ Okay _ , that sounded a little more patronizing that you expected it to. Maybe it’s your own oversensitive interpretation, but the question felt like it carried subtleties of  _ “you aren’t  _ supposed  _ to have anything to do.” _ Are you overthinking this? 

****

“It’s nothing really important, but I’d like to get it done anyway. Something personal.” You’re dodging the question, and you know he knows, but it really isn’t anything official enough to be considered important yet. 

****

So why are you too intimidated to share? Something gnaws at the back of your mind about hiding something from Akira, but you also don’t want him to react negatively to this when it hasn’t even developed into anything yet. You want to spill it, scratch the itch, but you don’t really want to make a mess. 

****

Fortunately for you, Akira loses the apprehensive expression and lets you go for the evening. He drives you home and even goes far enough to park and walk you to your door before kissing you goodnight. You let him stay a little longer, pressing you against your locked door in a kiss so tight and encompassing that you almost forget why you came home in the first place. 

****

But your phone vibrates in your pocket and you scrape up just enough willpower to push Akira away and send him off with a goodbye. “See you tomorrow, love.” he leaves a last kiss on your forehead, and you melt just a bit into your shoes. 

****

It’s all you can do to open your door and lock it before collapsing on your bed to finally check your email. ‘Ovation Enterprises would love to have you’ reads the title, and it was sent from an accredited email from a director you were in contact with before. 

****

Skimming over the email, your heart is gripped with strong ambiguity. OvEnt is a relatively small, but growing and well-respected company that’s started appearing more often in stocks, news, and online trends. This offer you’re reading through details a request for you to pick up on your previous career as an interviewer and communications director. 

****

You’ve been sent a treasure trove of job offers since you started working with the Phantom Thieves, but it was clearer than crystal that they were based on interest in your relationship with Akira and the Thieves alone, nothing that reached out to your own merit, your own skill. You learned all too quickly how shameless people can be when trying to capitalize. 

****

So you can immediately read the legitimacy in this particular offer. What makes this company different is your previous connection with them, and the amount of work they require of you. 

****

They make it clear that it’s a demanding job, especially since OvEnt is still growing and expanding, but also that they trust you to take on the challenge because of the work you’ve done as an interviewer in the past. You were referred by an old manager who now works at OvEnt as a director, and your trust in your senior makes the opportunity of this job more authentic. 

****

You sigh, thinking about how Akira would react to you getting a full-time job when you’ve already got work as a communication tower between the Phantom Thieves and the general public. He’s always been meticulous about making sure you’re not overwhelmed, which is why you take it so easy with the work you have now. 

****

But it’s not like you’re doing anything incredibly impacting. Anyone can send a few emails, and write up case reports. If you’re completely honest, you could make do with this job. You want to challenge yourself, to take on big projects, to be busy again. Not that you don’t appreciate the privilege of stability that comes with boredom, but you want this. 

****

Have you ever really wanted something this way? It’s been a long time since you’ve felt that kind of desire, that kind of drive, to do something and be someone who contributes to the world. The reservoir of energy and passion that brews within you like magma aches to burst free, to erupt and build the world anew. 

****

In a way, you want to be like the Phantom Thieves. 

****

You’ve kept up with them since their humble beginnings, shoving your presence into the online forum for the Phan-Site when it was just starting. The undying admiration you held for such anonymous heroes moved you to find out more about them, find out more about their goals and ambitions. The more you researched, the more you found that their ambitions aligned with and even inspired some of yours. Everything the Phantom Thieves had accomplished inspired you to move forward with your own contribution. You wanted and you still want to use your potential to help the world too.

****

So what’s holding you back? 

****

An image of Akira’s earlier expression and the sensation of his strong arm around your waist, on your back, around your wrists, sprouts from the bedrock of your memories. Suddenly, the affectionate touches and passionate throes of your evenings in his bed are reminiscent of leashes and shackles, of confinement. 

****

_ “Nothin’ bad.” _

****

You shake the ridiculous thoughts out of your head, rejecting them completely. “Stupid Ryuji.” you huff, tossing yourself onto your stomach and digging your face into your pillow. What are you even thinking? 

****

_ “Don’t take everything he says too seriously,” _ Akira’s voice matches Ryuji’s echo. 

****

You’re conflicted. On one hand, he’s right because it’s not too often that Ryuji says something too concerning. On the other, Ryuji’s warning could be ringing in your head for a reason and Akira’s attempt at quelling it may very well be a concern. 

****

Tilting your head to rest your cheek on your pillow, you pull up the email to read it through once more. 

****

*

****

Akira’s fingers massage your scalp. Your head rocks back and forth to the beat of his fingers, and your eyes are shut.

 

The bath water is a lulling warm that sways against your naked skin. You’re tempted to lean back and rest your head on his chest, but he’d get a face full of conditioner and you’re riding a tight schedule. Stress sparks inside you, but it’s a good kind of stress, a catalyst to keep your mind sharp, your skills sharper. Still, pulling away from being nestled between his legs is a challenge you stash away for the future.

 

“Your fingers feel so good,” you say, a hum fizzing in your throat. It’s an offhand comment, but it pulls you closer to him when you need to get out of the tub and meet Ann.

 

“Practice.” There’s only one word, but the undercurrents come to life with each syllable; they tingle against your skin, jolting it to life unlike the warm bath water.

 

His hands move from your scalp to your shoulders, where he rubs and unwinds the little sprouts of stress.

 

“Trying to seduce me?”

 

“If I said I was?”

 

“I’d say you’re good at it, very, very good at it.”

 

It should be illegal for his fingers to feel that good and have that sort of impact on you. With each motion, time slips from your fingertips. Then, you remember Ann and how hard it was coordinating with her packed schedule. Your muscles undo Akira’s work.

 

“Good enough to make you stay?” he asks, and it’s a whisper, a whisper that runs over your body with warm hands and deals you affection.

 

_ “Look, I just wanna make sure you’re in a good relationship. Nothin’ bad.” _

 

There it is again, that thought. Akira was able to keep it at bay for the first few days, what with his touches and praises and smiles, but it’s been coming back, rearing its head when he’s not around.

 

_ Affection shouldn’t be a deal. _ The thought is an echo in your head. You’re not sure where it came from—maybe crawling up from the depths of your mind, maybe spawned from Ryuji’s comments, maybe out of spite because of the way Akira corrals you and fits you to whatever shape he wants you to be—but it happens. The thought lives. And you can’t bring yourself to kill it.

 

“You know I’m going to dinner with Ann.”

 

“Where, again?”

 

“A nice café. She said she wanted to catch up and talk.”

 

_ That’s a lie.  _ Or, at least, it skirts on the edges of being a lie. Ann couldn’t reach out to you, not with all her promotions lately, so you pitched the idea shortly after the gala. She left your texts on read until the eleventh hour.

 

“Want some company?” he asks. He frames it like a question, but your ears pick up on how it’s more like him saying he’ll go with you.

 

Like sunlight, it dawns on you that you’re not nestled between his legs. You’re held there—held  _ here. _ The warmth from his skin is suddenly scorching, suddenly makes you itch and shift around, kicking up some of the water as you do so. Droplets fly and platter around the tub and on the floor with high arcs. The arcs feel higher than your future.

 

“You’d be bored. Girl talk and all. You know how it is,” you dismiss.

 

Rinsing off the conditioner is habitual, but you speed through it with impatient fingers. You can feel him analyzing you, filing everything about your behavior away to a mental file cabinet. The water cascading over your hair is the only sound. He’s silent.

 

Untangling yourself from him is like a breath of fresh air. When you stand, dipping a foot out of the bath and putting it on a mat, you catch his mirthless eyes. They cloud over with warmth in a second.

 

A forced smile bends your lips. You know it. He knows it. And you get out.

 

The drive is long, and you’d swear that you crawled into a Gothic story with how dark it is. There’s no moon out tonight; it’s a shell of its usual self, and it’s only a hallmark when it’s full and bright. But tonight, there’s no moon. Towering trees line the road. Sharp green, they’re unmistakable, even when it’s this dark.

 

Ann’s dress is a shimmering deep red. When she said the dress code for the café was casual, she must’ve been talking about  _ her _ standards. Her arm rests against the inside of the car door as her chauffeur drives. Dancing over the keyboard her fingers get to work belting out a reply to someone, with the light from her phone bouncing on her face.

 

Chewing the gravel, the car’s wheels crunch everything they roll over. The chauffeur's hands glide over the wheel to turn it.

 

You’re within inches of each other, yet it feels like you’re on opposite sides of the Grand Canyon with only you trying to get her attention. The silence is slow, lethargic, and heavy, but once it’s on you, it’s smothering.

 

Lighting up, an email notification pops up on your phone. OvEnt. A single name. A single name that digs up your tension with Akira and throws it in your face again. An opportunity disguised as a job.

 

“Hey, Ann,” you start, “can I get your opinion on—”

 

Coming into view, the sight of the white café and its lavish garden cuts you off before you can say anything else. You wonder if Ann heard you with the distracted look splayed over her face.

 

Glossy, the table in front of you is a dark collage of browns. The booth is squishy when you sit down, and Ann’s bodyguards hover around different corners of the café. She slides in the booth naturally, dress glued to her frame. Setting her phone down on the table, she picks up the laminated menu, with her eyes scanning up and down the columns.

 

Casual. As your eyes whirl around the café, you’re reminded that she said the dress code was casual. The jewelry hanging around people’s necks like trophies are anything but casual. Even the decorated white trim along the walls isn’t casual. Your blouse doesn’t rival the thousands of dollars that everyone here wears like second nature, but as you pick up the laminated menu, eyes greeted by picturesque desserts when you open it, you decide that if you can fake it at the gala, you can fake it here, too.

 

The spongy chocolate soufflé on the menu is mouthwatering.

 

“So, do you have any recommendations? Everything looks amazing,” you say.

 

Ann’s eyes flash to you, and the beaming grin on her face reminds you of how she used to smile. Before the Holy Grail, before Yaldabaoth, whatever it’s called.

 

_ Was it a mistake? Siding with the Holy Grail? _

 

“Oh!” she squeals and taps a spot on your menu. “The croquembouche is really, really good! It’s my regular! Do you think I should get it again?” She pouts. “. . .but then again, the mini cheesecakes look so good.”

 

You laugh. “Maybe you should go for something you haven’t had yet? I think I’m gonna get the soufflé.”

 

“Can I just have all of them?”

 

“I mean, you  _ could _ . Maybe we can try to get everyone last minute and share them?”

 

She gives you a noncommittal hum, cheeks puffed, before letting a slight smile shine through. “I’d like that. It’s been too long.”

 

“Your schedule is pretty busy, too. It really does feel like it’s been forever since we were. . .” you trail. Throwing around the words  _ “actually together” _ and  _ “real friends” _ in your mouth helps you organize your feelings—puts them in nice neat boxes ripe for being overanalyzed sometime at two a.m. in Akira’s bed.

 

Akira’s bed. Funny that’s straight where your mind went. Not your bed. His bed.

 

“Yeah,” she loftily says and puts her elbows on the table. She looks away like she’s flipping through memories. “I know what you mean.”

 

The waiter comes a minute later to take your orders.

 

Apparently when the waiter comes back with your soufflé and her mini cheesecakes, he unknowingly brings something else with him. An uninvited something. Like an STD but worse.

 

That uninvited something slides in your booth right next to you. Her hair is tightly wound in a bun, and her eyes seem like they haven’t known sleep in the last decade. Briefly, you wonder what her secret is.

 

She calls your name as if you’ve been best friends for years, and she waves to you with such practiced enthusiasm that she could put a mechanical bull to shame, because, boy, are you ready to get off this ride. The skin on her face is stretched at the seams and if she smiles any wider, you’re sure it’s going to come off. Yikes.

 

“I’m so glad we could finally meet,” she tells you. “Our company is very interested in pursuing a professional relationship with you.”

 

As she slides a white business card to you, you give Ann a classic  _ what the fuck _ look, and her eyes are equally wide, equally in shock that whoever this is decided to just interject herself in your conversation. You glance at the lingering bodyguards to see them on the move, imposing suits and all. The name on the card definitely isn’t OvEnt and it definitely belongs in the trash as soon as you leave.

 

You don’t try to hide your vexed expression. “Uh, okay? But this isn’t the professional way to contact—”

 

“Ann!” she yells, holding her hand out. “It’s so great to finally meet you!”

 

Of course. Because everyone always talks to you in hopes to rub elbows with the Phantom Thieves. Of course.

 

Ann doesn’t bother saying anything as the bodyguards yank the woman up and drag her away. Her heels skid over the tile in protest.

 

“So,” Ann says, “what were you saying?”

 

“What’s there to say when we’ve got this gorgeous food in front of us? Let’s dig in.”

 

Maybe if you coop all these thoughts up you can process them by yourself.

 

Your eyes flick to Ann munching away, moaning as the dessert hits the right notes. You can do this by yourself. This is you and Akira’s problem, not theirs. Besides, they’re too busy with their packed schedules, their galleries, their tech companies taking off, their movie premieres and awards to line every foot of their equally luxurious rooms.

 

The toxicity leaks out of those thoughts, but you ignore it in favor of the chocolate soufflé.

 

When you gently prod the soufflé with a spoon, it crumbles under the pressure.

****

*

****

“How was the cafe?” he asks when you walk through the door. 

****

“Fine.” you bite, tossing your purse on the couch before toppling over to the couch where Akira is nestled. Your head practically slams into his shoulder in an aggressive, but silent plea for comfort. 

****

Akira answers with an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer to him, twisting his frame towards you into order to hug you into his chest, “What happened, darling?” His voice is tender, perfectly matching his lips at the top of your head. 

****

“Sometimes…” you sigh, wondering if you should even say this aloud. It’s ridiculous, in that it shouldn’t be true, but it pretty much is. “Sometimes… I feel like you’re the only one who cares about me.” 

****

Iron. His grip on yours stiffens until it resembles that of a strong metal ore, casted and shaped to lock you in his arms. “What happened.” It comes out like a demand this time, with his steely voice coming to match his iron grip in a perfect alloy. 

****

You’re on alert, pulling away from his arms as if they’re cage doors closing in on you. Abandoning your melancholic desire for affectionate comfort, you raise your voice in flames of outrage and dramatic narration of the disrespect you experienced at the cafe. Disrespect from the recruiter’s ingenuine interest, Ann’s apathy towards your well-being (you didn’t even hear a “how are you?” tonight), and even Ann’s bodyguards who didn’t bother to step in to help you, -- Ann’s friend -- while you were being harassed. 

****

“Like… I’m used to this behavior, but it still gets on my nerves! You saw that shit with Yamato; even when I’m acknowledged, I’m only acknowledged as a channel, a means to an end goal.” You’re as bitter as a shot of espresso, but you can’t help ranting. The more you reveal your actual thoughts, the lighter you feel. Maybe this is the best way to go about it after all, maybe you should just reveal everything and release your anxieties before they eat at you from the inside out like a parasite. 

****

“I should have gone with you.” 

****

If you didn’t think Akira’s voice could get harder than it already was… 

****

It’s enough to stop you in your spontaneous impulse to announce your declaration for independence. “No,” you sink back down against the couch in a sigh, leaning against him to assuage his complete discontent. “You can’t fight all my battles for me, Akira. But I’m getting real tired of this. It’s like I’m nothing without my connection to the Phantom Thieves.” 

****

OvEnt. 

****

The name echoes in your mind, resonating with each word of the email that you’ve read enough times to memorize the offer. The offer that gives you an opportunity, a new life. One independent from the Phantom Thieves. One that would make you your own person again. 

****

“I can and I would do anything for you.” Akira affirms. “I love you.”

****

But he doesn’t say anything about options. About possibilities that would give you independence from the Thieves, independence from him. He doesn’t offer you encouragement for autonomy, for agency. 

****

You take another moment to think with your lip between your teeth before replying, “I love you, too.”  _ And I want to do something, too. I want to help the world like you do, like the Phantom Thieves do. _

****

Here goes nothing, “I--” 

****

_ Briiing _ . 

****

Your breath catches, and Akira’s gaze softens for a moment while you forlornly pull out your phone to check the reminder.  _ ‘Send reminder to Akira and Ryuji for in-person interview tomorrow with Weekly Icon! Yukona Publishing Building, Downtown branch @ 9AM.’ _

****

Another interview. To think you used to be the one on the other side of the table, asking questions, getting to know all kinds of incredible people. Not that being in an intimate relationship with the leader of a well-renowned organization of justice is something you can complain about, but you do miss the action. 

****

With a sigh, you get up and make your way to Akira’s bedroom, “I’m gonna turn in for tonight. Can you call Ryuji about tomorrow? We have an interview.” 

****

_ ‘We.’ _ It’s funny how naturally that glides off of your tongue. You’re not the one being interviewed, but whenever he goes, he goes with you. And you always cater to his requests and wishes. Always… 

****

With quick fingers, all the information is sent to Akira’s phone and he hums an affirmation before following you into the bedroom. He waits on the bed for you to change into your sleepwear and tuck yourself into his arms and blankets so he can lull you to sleep with a whisper of, “Goodnight, angel.” 

****

Like magic, your eyes fall closed. 


	3. A Crowned Republic with Plastic Jewels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ryuji just might be your new best friend

“It’s too early to be thinking ‘bout crap…” Ryuji’s mouth stretches in a huge yawn before biting down on the breakfast muffin the crew has provided this morning. 

 

Akira and you had driven up to Ryuji’s place at 8am to pick him up on the way, and he was out like a light for most of the commute, but he still looks dead tired. This is just a magazine interview, so his exhaustion from partying all night won’t show through, but there’s still the photo shoot to worry about. 

 

You’ve already done your best with the makeup they had available to hide the hearth of Ryuji’s dark circles, but nothing would truly change that punk-like scowl on his face. Not that you’d want to, because Ryuji is Ryuji. He’s got his own charm among fans of the Phantom Thieves, and his popularity is pretty high these days. 

 

“You couldn’t wait to eat that until  _ after  _ your joint shoot with Akira?” you complain, swiping at the crumbs on his blazer with a napkin. He’s got a rebellious style, but he still manages to make a blazer on top of a graphic tee work. 

 

“I’ll clean it off, don’t worry about it.” Ryuji waves it off with a hand as he stuffs the remainder of the muffin into his mouth and dusts off his hands. “Besides, can’t work on an empty stomach, right?” 

 

You suppose not, but working for this guy feels like babysitting sometimes too; Having to coax him into showing up for an interview, to tell him to behave even if people do something he doesn’t like, to clean up after the messes he doesn’t even intentionally make. At the same time, it’s kind of refreshing to have someone to take care of rather than having everything taken care of for you. 

 

A sharp dart of guilt stabs at your heart as the thought redirects your attention to Akira, who’s in the middle of his individual shoot. He looks immaculately handsome in his casual wear, that he also topped off with a blazer. Whoever sees this man on the cover of the upcoming issue is sure to be shaken at a glance. 

 

He catches your eye and sends you a subtle smirk that looks like it’s purposely angled to show off for the camera -- much to the photographer’s excitement -- but it’s a clear signal that he’s noticed you noticing him. Taking his time before turning away into a new pose, Akira’s gaze lingers on you for a few more seconds, raking your body with his eyes from top to bottom. Your body shivers a little and you can’t turn away from his intentional gaze until he turns away first. 

 

Once he’s given his attention back to the shoot, however, you sigh and turn your gaze back to the snack table, looking to get another cup of coffee in you. 

 

“What’s up with you, anyway?” Ryuji’s voice lassoes your attention back to him, trying to sound casual, but even you can hear the shakiness crawling through his throat from his stomach. 

 

“Same old, same old.” you shrug, “Thanks for asking.” You mean it. You haven’t been given that kind of genuine interest in a while from someone other than Akira. “How about you?” 

 

“Same here, going out, meeting chicks, makin’ appearances on shows and whatnot, then hanging out at bars and clubs and shit. Sometimes I fly out somewhere.” he shrugs. Clearly, the lavish celebrity lifestyle is one that’s become the norm for him. At the same time, however, he almost sounds… bored. 

 

“Anyway, uhh… things still going okay? You know, between you and him?” Ryuji nods his head towards the direction of the shoot, and the past week of doubts and confusion and misgivings flood back to the forefront of your mind. 

 

“That’s…” You pause to suck in a deep breath. Why is this harder to answer than it should be? You carefully look back over your shoulder to make sure Akira is still occupied with the photo shoot before answering, “I was… thinking of getting a new job. I wouldn’t be quitting this one, but just getting another one on top of this. But I haven’t decided yet…” 

 

“Why not?” 

 

Such a simple question. And he asks with such a casual, curious innocence that makes you wonder yourself… why not? Why is it so hard to just choose and move on with this new life decision to better yourself?

 

In your heart, though, you know. Unknowingly, your eyes trail over to Akira in his gorgeous confidence and casual charisma, amplified by the camera lights and endless attention from the crew surrounding the shoot. Somehow, for some reason, you can’t convince yourself that you need more than what has already been given to you. Perhaps it would be too greedy or ambitious to ask for more. 

 

“I see…” Ryuji observes, snapping you back at attention. Shoot, you’ve given yourself away. Being the one who brought up the initial feelings of distrust, Ryuji must’ve easily picked up on your little side glance as an answer. “Is he… I mean, he’s my best friend. And he really likes you. But… he’s treating you right, ain’t he?” 

 

“He is,” you nod, although you’re not sure what could constitute as “right” in a situation like this. “It’s just… I don’t know how he would react to me doing something else.” 

 

“He’d be thrilled!” Ryuji answers immediately, loudly, with that surefire confidence that would bring both reassurance and doubt to anyone. You want to believe him, but should you really have such hope? “Or at least, he should be. If you wanna do it, then he should be happy about it. He’s the type of guy who helps people, I’m sure he’d be down with it.” 

 

The swell of hope in your heart blooms like a balloon, and the smile spreads on your face on its own, “You really think so?” You want to believe so. You want to believe that he would want something that you want. 

 

_ ‘I can and I would do anything for you.’  _ he had said. Surely, that extends to encouraging you in your own aspirations? 

 

“Okay, I’ll try talking to him about it.” 

  
  


*

  
  


You’re seated beside Akira on the long sofa with a tablet in your lap, ready to take notes or bring up any case information that the interviewer brings up. He’s got an arm around your waist and has your hip pressed snugly against his, so that the two of you sink into the sofa cushion in a single spot together. Ryuji’s leaning on the arm of the sofa on the other side of Akira, tapping and scrolling through his phone even when the interviewer begins talking. 

 

Per usual, you’re silent for most of the interview, only here to provide permissive commentary when they ask a particularly invasive question. Akira can handle the probing pretty well on his own, but sometimes you just have to jump in as an “official representative” to cut them off before they get any ideas about weeding answers out of them. 

 

However, this interviewer seems to want a little more dirt, from a new angle. 

 

“Okay, so I’m just going to jump right into this question because we are just  _ dying  _ to know, who is this lovely young lady you have on your arm, Akira-san?” 

 

Your blood freezes in your veins at the same moment that Akira’s grip tightens on your hip. “She’s often seen together with you and the other Phantom Thieves at events, interviews like these, and even out in the streets. And she’s clearly more than just a mouthpiece for your organization, since you haven’t been shy about sharing a kiss or two in public! Would you be so kind as to divulge into your relationship status with us?” 

 

Red. You see red. You’re seething and there’s so much more that you want to say in addition to  _ ‘mind your own goddamn business,’ ‘I’m right here,’ _ or  _ ‘why are you making it sound like he could do better?’ _

 

What you settle for, though, is, “We kindly ask that you refrain from questions that verge away from those requested on the script.” 

 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Ms. Secretary.” She dismisses you with a flimsy wave and careless laugh, “We’re a pop culture magazine. Our readers are dying to know what kind girl could capture the attention of someone from the Phantom Thieves!” 

 

You’re so flabbergasted at being simultaneously treated like a formality and a commodity that you can’t find the words to retort. Ryuji, however, chooses to find them for you, “Hey, mind your own goddamn business! We ain’t answerin’ a question like that. So either you get a move on, or we will.” 

 

Ryuji looks like he’s about to jump out of his seat, but Akira holds an arm out to hold him back. After a tense breath, Ryuji huffs and collapses back against the sofa cushions with his arms crossed and his eyes furrowed. 

 

Akira’s eyes are like cold daggers, frozen in ice and strikingly painful. “I’m not fond of disrespect towards those close to me.” You’d feel sorry for the interviewer on the receiving end of a stare so chilling, but she honestly brought this upon herself. 

 

“We’ll be taking our leave for today. Goodbye.” Akira stands to leave, practically lifting you up with him in his iron grip. 

 

“But, Akira--” you start. Is he really planning on just up and ditching this place mid-interview?

 

“And good riddance.” Ryuji stands as well, slouching and sinking his hands into his pockets before sauntering out of the room. “Let’s get outta here.” 

 

Akira looks down at you with something that you would like to associate with warmth, but he’s practically closed himself off with a freezer door before whisking you with him out of the room. The interview room is stagnant with the chill he leaves behind. 

  
  


*

  
  


The boba shop’s fan rattles as Ryuji bounces his leg up and down, sucking the boba out through the straw with a scowl warping his face. Eyebrows creased, he squeezes the plastic bottle in a vice grip. The tan sofa he’s sitting on looks like it was in the middle of collapsing on itself before it was burped up from the ground and landed here, in this quiet corner shop.

 

Akira’s hunched over on the sofa you share, his eyes plowing holes in the Halloween orange wall. You bite your tongue literally and figuratively, choosing to roll the boba around in your mouth, then piercing it with your tooth that’s too happy to do its job. Your veins cook your blood, boiling it, steaming it, sizzling it, everything; your thoughts are dumped into the pot your blood boils in and are stirred around like you’re not red in the face. All the mute little monsters slapping you were given shrill voices.

 

Stopping here was supposed to help you all—was supposed to make sure Akira wasn’t strangling the wheel while driving, that you wouldn’t make snippy comments, that would keep Ryuji’s blood from bursting out of his ears.

 

You steamroll the boba with your teeth. Your neck is tight, and there’s no room in your head for thoughts that aren’t combative, that aren’t ready to have pitchforks in their hands.

 

“We need to go,” you pointedly say, glancing at Akira. Judging by his eyes, he reads your voice like it’s on a fuse. A fuse that you don’t want Ryuji to see the end of. It’s not like you could clear the entire shop on such a short notice, either. Renting it out takes time, time that you don’t have. Especially with mobs of reporters always chewing at your heels.

 

Wordlessly (because it’s always wordlessly, always silently), Akira stands. You toss your plastic cup in a nearby beat up trash can, and Ryuji follows you both out the shop door.

 

Again, wordlessly, you all buckle up in the car.

 

Again—has this been a pattern throughout your relationship? Are you just now picking up on it?—Akira wordlessly drives, with his foot like a brick on the gas.

 

“I’m just,” you start, a deep sigh following it. “How could she do that?” The words grate against your tongue; they feel like sandpaper.

 

No answer. Your eyes skim along the bustling road while Akira drives. Are you not worth the response? Not even a single grunt in acknowledgement?

 

_ Maybe she was right. _

 

Official position in the Phantom Thieves? Fuck no, when did you ever do anything important besides push some papers? You’ve been letting an illusion dangle in front of you, insisting it was real and  that you were within millimeters of snatching it. Official position? What a joke _. _ Anyone could do what you did. What you do.

 

Your fingers are white when they bite into your seat.

 

You snort. “I’m not even worth anyone taking me seriously, huh.”

 

In the backseat, Ryuji’s body language explodes, his face stunned. “What?!” he shouts. “ _ Of course _ you are! Don’t gimme that bullshit! That lady was way off base.” He crosses his arms. “I can’t believe she—”

 

“Ryuji,” Akira clinically cuts in. He glances in the rearview mirror to give Ryuji a warning look, then to you. Your name on his lips sounds as though he’s chastising you. Being your parent instead of your boyfriend. “Stop it, both of you. Keep calm.”

 

“Keep calm?” Another pointed snort from you. “Calm? Really? In this situation?”

 

“Yes.” Crisp, clear, cutting, Akira gives you a single word, a demand. It feels sterilized when your mind tosses it around. Akira stops the car in front of Ryuji’s condo and nods to it.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryuji says, a crestfallen look riding his face. He scratches his head, then looks at you. “I’ll text you later.”

 

You don’t miss how Akira freezes. The second Ryuji gets out of the car, Akira’s voice chips at you like an icepick.

 

“You’ve been texting each other.”

 

Flat, completely flat. His eyes seem almost lifeless, but you know him well enough to see the traces of white-hot malice thundering behind that flatness. And it puts you on the defense, makes your  spine stiffen, your hand grip on the seat for life. Because if he hits you with the full force of that malice, you’re not sure if you’ll survive. This time, instead of the interviewer, you’re on the receiving side of his thick wrath. She brought his wrath on her before. Did you do the same stupid thing?

 

When you gulp, it’s out of fear, and you try to make yourself as small as possible while trying to wear a brave face.

 

“We have.”

 

He starts driving again.

 

“Why.”

 

_ Don’t piss him off. Don’t piss him off. Bite your tongue. Stay silent. _

 

Ryuji’s voice echoes in your voice, and it’s that single word that always forced you to think: why. Why are you afraid? Why do you sit on your nerves and hesitate whenever you say something to him? Why’ve you been tiptoeing around him recently like he’s a pit of fire whose flames will burn, scorch, or mar your skin? Why are you afraid of being flambéed alive by him?

 

Were you always like this?

 

No.

 

Breathing in, you answer. “Does it matter?”

 

The rest of the ride is a weaponized silence.

 

An afternoon sun drops into the air, hanging lower. Your purse clatters against Akira’s counter, and you unzip its teeth to stuff it full. Inside your purse, miscellaneous items like tissues and a wallet stare back at you, but you don’t look at them, not really, not with all the tension that’s been on your back since the interview earlier. How could you concentrate on something else?

 

Avoiding him completely won’t solve anything, and (you breathe, shuffling through your purse habitually) as much as he screws a knife in your heart, it’s hard to unstick yourself from him. Digging through your purse, your fingers climb over the tissues, over the things that don’t matter, but there’s a lack of something. Something’s missing. You don’t feel the lukewarm chill of your apartment keys. Your car keys are here, though. Did you forget to grab the apartment keys from his car after your argument earlier?

 

Right. The argument. It’s a fresh brand on your heart you’re nursing. You’d call out to him, ask him if he knows where your keys went, but the words are heavy on your mind and heavier on your tongue. Maybe you’ll try and break everything down with him after you get home from your interview. The space between you is much needed, but you’re going to have to talk about this like adults eventually.

 

_ Adults? _ With all the feelings clogging every pore of your body, you certainly don’t feel like it.  _ Whatever.  _ Flying to the clock, you know you’re on a tight schedule again, so you’ve got to leave right now if you want to make it to that interview.

 

Then, because the universe can’t get enough of sucker punching you, Akira comes out of your— _ his _ —bedroom. With how he’s dressed, he’s definitely heading out.

 

“You’re going out,” he says.

 

“Yep.” It’s more clipped than you wanted, but it doesn’t bother you.

 

“Where?”

 

“An interview.”

 

“Oh? I wasn’t aware one of us had an interview. Who are you going with?”

 

“Myself.”

 

“Yourself,” he reiterates.

 

“Mhm.”

 

He blinks once, twice, thrice, and his mouth parts. “Why.”

 

There it is again. You almost angrily twitch at that one word, the word that manages to make you think and piss you off at the same time. It’s one word, but it sounds like he’s saying,  _ “You’re not supposed to go anywhere.” _

 

You shrug. “I wonder?” 

 

“You have everything you need.” He doesn’t say it like a question. He’s saying a fact, an indisputable fact. “And yet you’re going to an interview.”

 

Popping up, your eyebrow must seem condescending. “Do you know that for sure? That I have everything I’ll ever need?”

 

His fists clench, but his face is placid. “What don’t you have?”

 

And it falls from your lips too well timed to be held back. “Freedom. Independence.  _ Myself _ .”

 

OvEnt is the gateway to becoming yourself again. Of this you’re sure.

 

He seems like he has the wind kicked out of him, but he recovers quickly, too quickly, with a glacial smirk that would give you frostbite if you touched it. You zip up your purse, haul it over your shoulder, and walk to the door, fingers curled around the doorknob. He gets one last sentence in before you leave.

 

“Fine. I’ll give you what you want.”

 

And you’ve never felt so chilled.

 

*

  
  


Three weeks. 

 

For three weeks, it’s been a heavy, stifling, stalemate between you two. For three weeks, you’ve been spending most of your daytime hours training and learning the ropes of OvEnt’s inner mechanisms, and occasionally returning to Akira’s condo only to find a cold, dormant atmosphere waiting for you. 

 

He’s there, but not really. He’s at the table eating with you, but he’s not tasting the effort you put into the meal. He answers you, but with a voice as cold and detached as if you were another stranger interviewing him. No longer is there the sweet affection for you in his eyes, his voice, or his touch. 

 

In fact, the complete absence of his touch is more palpable to you than any other pain that you’re used to. It  _ hurts _ . God, it hurts a lot. Like nails striking your chest and being pounded down with a hammer. Or like you swallowed a baseball filled with parasites. Your chest aches and your stomach feels heavy and your pulse speeds up every time you see Akira walk towards you, only to walk past you like you’re another section of wallpaper. 

 

How did it even become this way? Ryuji had said that Akira would have been thrilled to have you pursue a goal of your own. And yet, here you both are now, stagnant in your relationship as if you’re distant business acquaintances, with barely a text between you or a comfortable word exchanged in-person. It didn’t help that you had mistakenly brought it up after that chaotic mess of an interview, and let slip you want freedom. 

 

It had come out much more incriminating than you had meant it to. And although you don’t regret revealing it, or getting this job so far, you do wish you said it differently. No matter how true it was, Akira didn’t deserve to be treated like that. Not after caring so much for you and trying his best to give you everything he thought you needed.

 

Still. Does it have to be this way? 

 

“Do you want to go out and see a movie this weekend?” you ask after a prolonged, chilly silence at the dinner table one night. 

 

“I’ll be busy. Feel free to go on your own, though.” he replies blandly as he cuts through his steak and puts a small piece daintily into his mouth. You had put a lot of care and effort into making this dish and you know that you’re satisfied with the result, but the way he eats it so tastelessly gives off the impression that he’s consuming recycled rubber. 

 

“Okay…” you accept his answer, “Do you want to hang out anytime next week then?” 

 

“I don’t know.” And there he leaves it. Without an offer to compromise for another time, without further comment. He shuts you down like a flash freezer. The condominium feels more chilled than you remember it. 

  
  


*

  
  


“I just don’t get it!” you rage over speakerphone as your poor clothes are piled haphazardly on top of each other, despite just being cleaned and folded. Your frustrated thoughts and sloppy hands come through in your shoddy laundry work. “What is it that he wants from me? There’s nothing wrong with me wanting to improve myself, is there? Am I the one acting weird here?” 

 

“Well, him giving you the cold shoulder out of all people is definitely kinda weird. He’s always on you like a koala.” Ryuji’s voice rumbles over the phone. You just woke him up from a nap, but he had assured you it was okay.  _ ‘You obviously need to talk about it.’  _ he had said.

 

And he’s right. You couldn’t talk to your other friends that you conveniently lost touch with in the past half year, and they wouldn’t have been able to gauge your situation anyway because they don’t know Akira. Or at least, not who he is outside of media projection. And among the Phantom Thieves, Ryuji is the one you can probably trust to confide in about this. 

 

After jumping through flaming hoops to get one dessert with Ann, you could tell she wasn’t really absorbed in anything you had to say to her. The others are out of the question because they’re all so busy with art deals, police cases, and business expansion that you doubt they would have the time of day to even offer you a passing thought. And practically speaking, you don’t even have their personal contact information. 

 

Akira was always the one who communicated between you and the Phantom Thieves, and didn’t see any need for you to be in private contact with the others, so you were held off from them. Now that you think about it, that was another strange thing to do for a group that you’re working for. And it just raises your suspicions and worries about your relationship with Akira further. 

 

“I mean, he ain’t doin’ anything to you though, right? Like, nothin’ bad? Like raising his hand or making threats or whatever? ‘Cause we all know he’s real intimidating when he wants to be.” 

 

Ryuji has proven to be the most sound mind you can turn to, ironic as it is. He’s the one who had brought up this strange dynamic in the first place, and as strained as things are between you and Akira now, you’re glad he did. Had you not realized, maybe you would have continued down the road paved for you rather than stepping into a path for a future of your own. 

 

He’s always been the ‘ditzy’ one of the group, but he picks up on tension pretty well, considering he’s the cause of it a lot of the time himself. And from what you know about the Phantom Thieves’ past, they had chosen to live in a more muted, but realistically controlled world. 

 

The Holy Grail they had encountered offered them the chance to seize every opportunity they’ve ever wanted. You didn’t understand the complete mechanics of it, but desire was a natural phenomenon and drive in humanity, wasn’t it? Putting faith in the heroes of justice, you had believed the Phantom Thieves probably chose the best option available to them.

 

And now, they’re all living out their dreams, their best lives. Everyone is doing exactly what they want to be doing, and they seem happy. For the most part… You can’t be sure what true happiness means to each of them, but their genuinity hasn’t changed in the time you’ve worked with them up until now. Anyone can get excited or caught up in their success, but the Phantom Thieves are still just in their mission. In both the public’s eyes, and yours. Of this, you can be sure. And because of this, you know you want this to work out somehow.

 

“He isn’t doing anything to me, Ryuji.” you reassure in a softer voice, worn out by your own frustration. “With how we are now, I almost wish he’d do something. Anything would be better than just being ignored or treated like a stranger when I’m at his house.” 

 

“I dunno. He’s been my friend for years, so I don’t wanna make him the bad guy. But it’s also worth saying that he’s never been this way with anyone before. Like, I had no idea he was gonna react this way, so this is a whole new side to him I’m seeing.” Ryuji notes. And for some reason, hearing that Akira hasn’t acted or treated anyone else like this before makes your heart rattle a little in your chest. You’re too busy calming down your small, school girl blush to notice Ryuji’s hesitant silence before saying, “You must be real special to him.” 

 

“You’d know him best.” you throw back, voice softening. “I don’t know, Ryuji. I just really miss him. And I don’t know what I can say to get him back.” 

 

The way you say it, it almost sounds like Akira has left you. Although if he did, then at least you would have some closure to lead you through the five stages of grief towards acceptance. But as things stand between you know, you’re at a painful standstill. You never realized how normalized his touch has grown on your skin, how needy your body was for his, even for something as simple as a kiss. 

 

What you don’t get is how you’re supposed to go about this now. If you were given the chance to turn back time and change something, you have no idea what you could tweak in order to prevent an outcome like this. Akira has proven to be more volatile, sensitive, and controlling than you had thought. Yet despite having the spirit of a conqueror, Akira isn’t the type who would forgive and forget with angry, make-up sex as a peace offering. 

 

Though quite honestly, at this point, you’d give a limb for even a smile. Your heart aches in drought for his affection to rain down on you once more. What’s he feeling right now? Does he miss you at all? What kind of feelings of betrayal, or unappreciation, or dissatisfaction must he be undergoing to treat you this way?

 

When even the idea of Akira feeling pain or hurt or anger at you appears in your thoughts, you suddenly feel like you’re trapped underwater. Caged in an overbearing, liquified guilt that’s heavy enough to keep you from kicking to the surface for a breath of relief. If you’ve somehow managed to upset him -- the man who’s accepted you for who you were and given you a chance since the very beginning -- to the the point of ignoring your existence, who’s to say you weren’t really the one in the wrong? 

 

There are several thoughtful moments of silence. You’re immersed in thought about how to approach Akira next and creating a mental simulation of the worst case scenario in order to emotionally prepare, when Ryuji pipes up from your phone again, “Tell you what, I’ll try talking to him for you. Mano-e-mano.” 

 

Wings are forming around your heart, spreading at the bloom of hope at Ryuji’s offer, “Would you really do that for me?” 

 

“‘Course I would.” He affirms in his Big Man voice, the one he uses when he’s impressing girls and interviewers with his status and position. All of which he has, so you can’t call him on a bluff. “‘Sides, it’s been a while since we’ve hung out together. Might be good for all of us.”

 

He’s arrived. The wind beneath your wings. Your heart is prepped for flight. “Ryuji, you don’t know how indebted to you I would be for this. I’m so, so grateful. Thank you.” 

 

Apparently, Ryuji’s the one who’s changed the least since high school. It could be because his desires were relatively simple compared to the others. All he wanted was to cure his mother of worries over her son, and to be popular with ladies. Although he spends plenty of time drinking and flirting and sleeping with girls from clubs and concert events, he still returns home to hang out with his mother every weekend. Perhaps his absence of such an ‘ambitious’ goal to chase and nurture is what kept him grounded when some of his teammates floated off somewhere above the common folk. 

 

Many people make fun of him online or even in-person for being the most ‘immature’ one of the group, but you find his genuine authenticity to be charming. It’s what makes Ryuji, Ryuji. Neither the Phantom Thieves, nor you would trade him for anyone else. And right now, he’s turning out to be your greatest ally.

 

“Not a problem.” he replies quietly. 

  
  


*

  
  


You’re on your knees. And not in the way your mouth would salivate at.

 

The tile must be imprinting its grooves and patterns on your skin as your hand searches the space between the bed and nightstand.

 

_ Nothing here. _

 

Tightening, your face screws with irritation, and you stretch just a little father to cover more ground. Your fingers are met with tufts of hairballs. Ew. First the car, now here? Still no apartment keys? You pull your arm out and let it hit the floor beside you, numb to how it slaps the tile.

 

Your eyes drag themselves over to the alarm clock on the nightstand. 5:42 stares back at you in red.

 

New faces, new names, new rules—all the new protocols from OvEnt sap away your energy. Those vacation days offered in the contract looked good. Appetizing, even. Your stomach decides it wants to be the annoying kid on the airplane and kick you. Several times.

 

_ Right. Eating. _ You should do that. Set some reminders on your phone, too, because if your stomach screams in front of the new team again and embarrasses you, the shredded ribbons holding you together are going to poof away.

 

Unsticking your eyes from the alarm clock and shoving them over to your phone on the nightstand is a chore.

 

You thought you cut all the deadweight out when you unfollowed everyone who suddenly came out of the woodwork when you started hanging around the Phantom Thieves, but it looks like you missed a spot because wow _ , _ your arm is dead.

 

Lifelessly, you snort. He’s not even here right now and you manage to remind yourself of your value. The value he gave you.

 

A sigh.  _ No, that’s not right. _ Because this is on you, too, now. He strung you along with a leash made of value, but you were right there, trotting next to him with a figuratively wagging tail.

 

Wrapping your fingers around your phone, you bring it down, swipe across the screen, and set reminders.

 

5:49. Since when has it been seven minutes?

 

 

Two egg yolks sizzle as they’re broken apart by your spatula.

 

“Hi,” you say to the phone nestled between your shoulder and ear, “sorry about the disturbance, but I’m calling because I seem to have lost my apartment key and was wondering if you could let me in. . .?”

 

Your landlord’s reply is sloppily thrown together and crossed with a spotty connection at best. Her voice sounds like it’s trying to outrun a treadmill.

 

“Oh. You’re on a vacation? In Alaska?”

 

Alaska. Great.

 

“No,” you say, sucking in all the sighs so she doesn’t hear your disappointment, “that’s fine. I understand. We can meet up in a few weeks. Thanks.”

 

You’re about to clip the call when you hear her voice.

 

“Doyouhavesomewheretostay?”

 

“Sorry?” Your ear tries to separate the sounds.

 

She heaves in a breath. “Do you have somewhere to,” she starts, but the wind rushes around her and clogs her voice. She keeps talking, and you’re sure one part sounds like,  _ “Are you safe?” _

 

“Oh.” You blink, then muster a laugh. “Don’t worry, I have somewhere to stay. Anyway, thanks again.”

 

The call ends. As you set the phone on the counter, the walls here seem bigger, lifelike. They’re not lurching forward to eat you like the scenario your mind springs on you. Instead, they’re imposing. Watchful. Observant. You strangle the neck of the spatula, your mind nailed down to keep it grounded.

 

_ Be patient. It’s only a few weeks. _

 

You’ve lived here long enough to lap around a couple of measly weeks. Your tongue seats itself between your teeth. This is nothing.

 

That nothing becomes something when the door opens.

 

All the hums—the sizzling eggs, the faint music in the background, the squiggly thoughts stampeding around in your head—they’re blocked when that door opens, swinging the exact same amount it always does.

 

_ What are you tense for? You have this handled.  _ Ryuji’s comforting voice loops in your head.  _ This is handled. _

 

“Evening.” You try to smile. Your face cracks.

 

You half expect the soothing warmth of Akira’s arms to wrap around you. He closes the door behind him.

 

“Evening,” he says, and you can picture the curt nod he’d give.

 

“How was your day?”

 

“Busy. Ryuji insisted on talking.” He sits on the couch, sinking into the cushions.

 

The tile beneath your feet makes them hurt. You turn off the stove with a single click, and scoop the eggs out, dropping them on a plate.

 

You avoid the minefield that is Ryuji with Akira.

 

“How was yours?” he asks.

 

“Good.” You nod your head to convince yourself. “It’s been good.” You lick your lips. “I have some time off if you wanted to. . .do something?”

 

“Do you have something specific in mind?”

 

A second wind powers your sails. Together.  _ Together. _ Wipe away the stagnant air with a couple of well-placed words. This is your chance to apologize.

 

_ Wait. . .apologize?  _ The guilt sitting on your lungs is noticeable. It was a slow piling, gradual, like one sheet of paper on top of another, but you’ve got about four books weighing on your lungs now; written on each page is his name. 

 

“I was thinking we could talk it over. Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this thanksgiving, we're grateful for all of you who are still following/reading even though updates are taking a slow walk. thank you so much, and eat your fill!


	4. Authentic Autocracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then you woke up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> put on your big boy pants, here come the dubious themes :^)

You wake up gasping, covered in a cold sweat but burning from an internal fire. It’s dark, dingy even. The tinted mulberry blue of the room is illuminated by a yellow glow coming from a close distance. In your attempt to lift your arm to wipe some of the sweat off your face, you find your strength sapped as it drops right back down beside your hip. 

 

“What?” you whisper under your breath. Turning your head this way and that, in search of something other than dark navy walls -- a person, a sound, even a fly -- you come to the obvious conclusion that this is no longer the hotel room you fell asleep in. 

 

Forcing your abdominals to work, you manage to sit up on the steel bench that you had been lying on. Your head and back are suffering the cold, hard repercussions of sleeping on it. However, that’s not what really catches your attention.

 

The clink and clang of metal knots is loud and synced to your every movement, and you already know the answer to what you’ll see coming even if you’re too afraid to look down and confirm the reality. But you take a trembling glance down to your wrists, trying to lift them, only to see them pulled back down by the weight of the chains shackling you to this small, confined space. 

 

It takes some work that you haven’t been putting in at the gym to lift your wrists up into the air. They’ve each got to be at least a solid basketball-sized boulder in weight, more than you can handle for more than a few seconds. The same goes for the shackles around your ankles. It takes the weakened strength from both your shackled arms and the support of your other shackled leg to bring your feet off the steel board onto the floor without making a loud noise. 

 

Once you’ve finished panting and settled your hands back on the steel bed again, you look up to take in your surroundings once more to identify the source of the pale light. It’s coming into your tiny room in barricaded shadows. 

 

Bars. 

 

Prison bars. 

 

“H-Hello?” You manage to squeak. It’s disconcerting, the way your voice echoes through the room. As resonant as if you were speaking from the stage of an empty opera house. You’re fairly certain that if there was another living soul in this building, they would’ve heard you just now, but you chance another call anyway, “HELLO?” 

 

A shiver trickles down your back as the loud echo of your own voice reverberates back to you in this dark, isolated… prison room? You take a long moment to gather your breath and your strength before finally standing, dragging your chain-bound ankles closer to the metal bars of your cell. 

 

The sweat on your neck pools, and chains of sweat tracing your eyebrows fall. Your tongue, dry, heavy. And your voice, plundered, poked by the thick air in the cell, shrivels up, leaving you alone. The chains chafe your skin. The heartbeat in your ears swells, and swells, and swells, like the shrill of an orchestra, whiny crescendos daring you to keep up with them, to hear them as they test your fragile ears. You press your hands against your ears and screw your eyes shut. Until they stop. And the sound, the music you craved, is gone. 

 

Now, your heart, fat and throbbing, sits in your throat. 

 

Panicking won’t jog your memories or drum up a solution. You time your breaths, rhythmic, calculated, constant; an invisible pattern. You slide your fingers down the cell bars before gripping them. The chains on your wrists and ankles weigh. 

 

Were you kidnapped? Your kidnappers could be using you to get to Akira, maybe for a price, a theme you’re all too familiar with now. Who would’ve taken you? The Phantom Thieves have no shortage of enemies. Or, what if you’re looking at this from the wrong way, and what if a stalker fan is after Akira’s attention, preying on you to meet their own goals? 

 

You tap your finger against one of the bars. 

 

None of those options would have access to you. Akira kept spades of protection around you both, from the private plane you took to the private hotel with a view people have killed for before. 

 

He was different yesterday. Chirpy. 

 

Bitter betrayal bathes on your tongue. He wouldn’t do this to you. Things have been rocky, but you’ve both been making progress. You’ve both been putting in the effort. Besides, even if you didn’t, that doesn’t justify  _ kidnapping. _

 

Through the hazy shadows in the cell and around wherever you are, you see hints of something rectangular, something big. A desk, maybe? The chair behind the desk is spun around, so you’re seeing the back end. 

 

Someone claps. 

 

You still. Sweat piles on your skin. “Who’s there?” 

 

Instead of silence, you’re met with a breath, a long, reveal-your-master-plan-to-the-heroes breath. 

 

“You look beautiful, darling,” he says. 

 

Your legs shake. The richness. The languidness. The velvet undertones that’ve whispered in your ears so many times, that’ve chanted your name when you work him through an orgasm. 

 

“Who’s there.”

 

Gritting your teeth doesn’t bide the anger. Him?  _ Him? _ He would--your face twists in disgust--chain you up here? This isn’t like him. This isn’t him. You rampage. 

 

“I suppose I can’t keep you in the dark any longer,” he says. 

 

“Akira? What’s going on? Is some kind of stunt? Because if it is--”

 

“But first, before you ask your questions, answer mine. It’s only one. How did you feel when you woke up?”

 

He steps forward. The same body. The same hair. But his face, his face mocks you. The tender warmth tarnished, the affection riding the sails of his smile snatched, the wonderment when he’d listen to you whipped away. 

 

How you felt when you woke up? What the fuck? What the literal fuck? Is it some sick form of validation? An ego stroke?

 

When he smiles, now, as he gives you a once, twice, and thriceover, you’re penetrated by teeth too white, by a face too cruel, by the malicious euphoria in his eyes. 

 

“There we go. That’s the expression I wanted to see.” 

 

He’s close to you, with his face separated mere inches from yours. He runs a finger down the side of your face. 

 

“How adorable,” he says.

 

“In case you don’t have  _ eyes _ , Akira, I’m locked in a prison cell, and I want answers.”

 

He tilts his head. “I put you in there. Your tone is quite sharp, by the way.”

 

Put you in here? Like a sack of potatoes he heaved over his shoulder and threw in here? That voice he used is the same one he used when ordering takeout. Normal. Casual. Relaxed. And your tone is sharp? So what? Did he expect you to accept being thrown in a prison cell with no biting edge, no resistance? What were you supposed to say? Something like: “Oh thank you, great one, for determining what’s best for me without my consent while completely revoking my individual freedom”?

 

“Put me in here?” You squeeze the life out of the cell bars until your hands hurt. “Put me in here?!”

 

“I just said that, darling. Please keep up.”

 

“You have five seconds to explain whatever it is that’s going on, Akira.”

 

He cocks an eyebrow. Then, a smirk slithers on his face. “Oh? You’re being bold today.” He shrugs. “Considering the circumstances.”

 

“I’ll scream.”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

He has weaknesses. He may be covered in Phantom Thief attire and have bars between you two, but he has weaknesses. He bleeds just like you do. The kisses between you two, the cuddling, the sweet intimate moments where he brings you up and refuses to bring you down, those are his weaknesses. 

 

“Fine.” You back up from the bars, cross your arms, and sneer at him. “We’re over. I’m going to drag you through fucking hell when I get out of here.”

 

His smirk tightens. He launches his hand through the openings and grabs you by the throat. He pulls you to the cell door until your cheek presses against the bars. 

 

“Always full of surprises, darling. Did OvEnt teach you this defiance?” He tilts his head again. “Or perhaps Ryuji?”

 

“I can’t.” You wheeze. “Breathe.”

 

“You know, I prefer this expression on you, actually. Helpless suits you.” His grip tightens. “So, who, my angel, taught you to be this defiant?”

 

You hit his arm while your face turns blue. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. 

 

“Being cooperative is in your best interest, angel.” He lessens the pressure on your throat, but he keeps his hand around your neck.

 

“Akira, firstly, I want to say--”

 

His fingers tap on your throat. “Answer the question.”

 

You roll the answer between your teeth. “I did.”

 

He hooks his fingers around your chin. “You did what, exactly?”

 

“I wanted to be more independent.”

 

“That's not the right word to use, darling.”

 

He restricts your movement, your agency, your personhood, and now he takes your language.

 

“I wanted to defy you.”

 

“And why would you do that?”

 

This is his game. His house. His deck of cards. If you're going to win this, even if it’s with one shred of sanity, you're bound to his rules.

 

“I did it for us, Akira.”

 

“Us?” He looks almost touched. 

 

“I wanted to be a better partner. Someone you could be proud of. Someone who could stand side by side with you.”

 

He steps back and examines you again. That’s the word: examines. Because you’re contained, frazzled, and what he wants the most, dependent. The collar you two used never had your name; only  _ Property _ . 

 

“Idealistic of you,” he says. 

 

You expect him to--what do you expect? For him to unshackle you? To ease your trauma away with a backrub? To say that this is all an elaborate set up for something or other--but he could do anything. He can do anything here.

 

Instead, he says, “Jump.”

 

“How high?”

  
  


***

  
  


You wake with a gasp. The same way you’ve been been waking up for the past however many days you’ve been here. Cold, covered in sweat, heart racing, skin throbbing, and straight out of a bad dream that you wish wouldn’t mirror your reality so flawlessly. 

 

Without a sign of sunlight or a clock, you have no sense of how much time has passed. It could have been a week, or maybe even two days since you were carelessly strolling the beach with your boyfriend, eating shrimp scampi at the most luxurious hotel rooftop garden restaurant, having the greatest start to your reconciling getaway. 

 

Who would’ve even fathomed that you’d end up in a place worse than jail? At least in a legitimate government prison, you would have a fighting chance, a phone call, a lifeline. 

 

Here, in this personalized cage that Akira had created -- that kept you trapped away from reality -- you’re no more than a toy. Not a prisoner, not a slave, not a prostitute, not even a pet. You aren’t give rights, compensation, love, or care. You’re merely a trophy, a doll for him to play with and toss away in this box when he isn’t having fun anymore. 

 

What you would give to be forgotten under the bed now. 

 

You’ve spent all your hours just sitting here, feeling sorry for yourself, wondering where and when it all went wrong, who Akira even is anymore. If this was who he was all along and the man you fell in love was just a facade. Sitting here, with your limbs curled into you like hiding yourself in the darkness of your knees will help you escape the dark glow of the prison lights. 

 

Ironically, you manage to find refuge in your better memories of Akira, and the kind, caring man he used to be. If you keep your eyes closed to shut out the cold, harsh scenery of your cell, you can picture the warm smile on his face back when you would greet him after he returned home from work. The strong, yet sweet hold he would keep on your waist as you would cook, or watch a movie, or brush your teeth. The aggressively gentle kisses he would leave on your neck as he made love to you for hours and hours and hours. 

 

“Akira…” you murmur to the fading illusion, your breath hot on your thighs, “I miss you…” 

  
  


*

  
  


Food appears by the bars inside of your cell sometimes when you awaken. And you have no choice but to eat it, because as miserable and humiliated as you are, you aren’t suicidal. Not yet anyway. 

 

If you manage to get out of this alive, you have to find some way to report to the authorities what’s happened to you. You’ve gone over hundreds of simulations of how to approach them, ready for pretty much any reaction and for no one to believe you. But no matter what, you have to get out of this alive, and turn Akira in, maybe even break up the Phantom Thieves. The people who were once your heroes. People who you once considered friends. People who have changed into individuals that resemble machines more than people. 

 

You can’t let him get away with this, and you sure as hell can’t let this happen to anyone else now that you know what they’re capable of. 

 

So you eat. Though each bite is tasteless and makes you want to spit it right back out, though it’s one of your biggest chores, though you feel like a street mutt having to submit to treatment like this, you eat. And you try not to cry into your food when you do. 

  
  


*

  
  


Akira doesn’t visit often. 

 

When he does, they’re short interactions, if you can even call them that. Sometimes, when you tire of being stuck in your head and look up, Akira is just standing there, staring at you with a mildly amused or even touched smile on his face. 

 

Sometimes, he says something. Others, he doesn’t. You had tried arguing with him to let you out the first few times, which only led to new bruises on your neck and less frequent visits. 

 

Funny. How now that you’re cut off from all human interaction and independent movement that the only stimulation you can look forward to is visits from your prison warden. You hate him, yet you still hope this isn’t really him. Maybe it’s because you loved him. Maybe you still want to love him, to forgive him. 

 

But even after running through countless resolutions to move forward with him, nothing will change what he’s doing to you right now. You doubt there’s a way for you to truly forgive him for this and continue to be in his life. Or to trust him to be in yours. 

 

Why did he have to do this? Why did he need to have so much control over you that he felt the need to lock you away from everyone and everything other than him? Why did he want to keep you as a possession rather than a lover, an equal? Why did he turn you against him? 

 

Why didn’t he just love you properly? 

  
  


*

  
  


You thought it was weird for a prison in an alternate dimension to have housekeeping appliances, but there’s been an air freshener spritzing out something flowery a couple times a day into your cell. At first, you didn’t care much for it, since you couldn’t even reach it from the tallest corner of the room Sometimes, it was another little thing you could pathetically look forward to in your day. 

 

You had flirted with the idea that Akira was trying to slowly kill you through a sweet, lavender-scented poison, but you didn’t experience any feasible physical impediments, so you disregarded the thing for a good while. If he really did end up killing you, then you were starting to think it’d at least put you out of your misery. 

 

However, what feels like over a week in this cell, you come to realize that your body’s antsy jitters cannot be a result of your immobility. You’ve taken to using your chains as exercise equipment when you started getting too restless. You daresay you’ve gotten stronger in here, because even though your whole body is always sore and your chafed skin is screeching at you, your muscles feel firmer and the chains aren’t as heavy as they once were. 

 

But even after you’ve wasted away your time with endless reps of crunches, arm and leg lifts, and even some yoga, all while chained down by heavy metal ropes, your body is still thrumming. Your blood simmers hot through your whole body, your lip is raw from your teeth scraping at it, your skin itches everywhere and nowhere, and as much as you try not to to, your brain cannot stop thinking about every line, curve, vein, texture, and the heat of Akira’s body. 

 

No amount of pushups or squats or jumping jacks will tire you out enough to stop this rush of heat building up from the floral aphrodisiac polluting the only oxygen you have available to breathe. At some point, you’re no longer able to stop yourself from associating every thought with lewd imagery of the man you most despise. 

 

Your pushups are all open-mouthed as you imagine dipping your mouth lower onto Akira’s cock when your arms work your face up and down above his hips. The sweat that soaks your body and clothes isn’t from the exhaustion of your squats, rather than the extra heat your body needs to release from thinking about how impressed Akira would be at how well you ride him. You’re ashamed to admit to yourself the number of ways you’ve imagined Akira getting you off through those prison bars. 

 

Your head is absolutely drowned in sexual imagery just like your lungs are saturated with hypnotic lavender perfume. But something is still stopping you. As much as you want a relieving orgasm, as easy as it would be to give yourself one with how sensitive you’ve become, you can’t dare to give him the satisfaction. You know that he’ll know if you do. You’ve stopped questioning how, but he’s sure to know the very second you do it. 

 

He installed that goddamn air freshener for a reason. He wants you to do this. It’s probably another way to have a hold on you. But he’s already taken control of every other aspect of your life, of you. As useless as it is, you have to at least keep hold of this part of you. The part that willingly accepts pleasure from Akira like a gift, that wants him. 

 

You will  _ not  _ want him. 

 

You will not. 

  
  


*

  
  


“You’re looking a little warm in there, darling.” 

 

How kind of him to put it so mildly. Especially when he came here to find you pressing your face against the metal bars against the cell, hoping it would cool you down a few degrees. 

 

You could probably fry bacon on your skin, your body is so hot. You can’t wake up or go to sleep or even pee without thinking about sex or Akira. Usually both. Together. You didn’t ever think it would be possible, but you very well may die of sexual deprivation. 

 

You don’t even have it in you to quip back. The only thing that comes out of your mouth other than your heavy breaths is, “Why…” 

 

“Oh love,” he steps forward with a pitifully sympathetic smile. You absolutely loathe how his gloved fingers on your cheek are the most incredible sensation you can remember feeling. How terribly humiliating would it be if you flicked your tongue out to get a taste of that red leather? “Do you truly not realize how beautiful you look like this?” 

 

‘Like what?’ You would bite, if you could just stop heaving through the bars in hopes of catching some clean air. 

 

“Trapped in not by chains or walls, but by your very own desire for me.” It takes every last ghost of willpower and self-worth to stop yourself from puckering your lips to kiss the gloved thumb that slowly swipes across your bruised and bloodied bottom lip. “All of this pain you’re feeling, darling, is self-inflicted. I’m not doing anything to hurt you. I’m really only here to help you, if you’d let me.” 

 

His voice is so saccharine that it reminds you of your first nights together, when he would care for every inch of you with his lips and tongue. You don’t think you’ve ever heard something so persuasively beautiful. Nevermind the fact that you haven’t heard another voice in what feels like weeks. 

 

“These lips, these scratches,” that tantalizing red leather moves across the red lines and rashes your nails have scraped into your arms and chest and neck, making them throb and beg for his fingers to stay. “And this.” His hand slowly glides down to cup the apex of your thighs, starting an earthquake of nerves and sparks rumbling inside of your body. “Why are you doing this to the woman I love?” 

 

You curse yourself for the pleasured yelp you let out when Akira traces a finger along the line of your slit through your clothes. It’s only a muted sensation of what you’ve been painfully fantasizing over, but it’s powerful enough to sap the strength out of your legs and send you keeling against the metals bars. Your hands hang desperately to the bars to hold you up much like you cling to life. 

 

“Come now, love. I can take all that pain away.” 

 

Take it away? Like he’s taken away every other part of you already? 

 

Your core cries for more of his touch, for his fingers to move just like they did earlier. Your entire body wants to break down and beg him to put you out of your misery. But some deep set part of your brain that still scrapes desperately at the edge of the cliff of sensibility you dangle over gets you to spit out something else. 

 

“Go fuck yourself.”

  
  


*

  
  
  


You may have passed out. 

 

The only thing you remember after saying that was that Akira’s grip on your core tightened -- whether it was on purpose or just an emotional reaction, you couldn’t tell -- and you had practically neared orgasm with how suddenly and intensely that touch had affected you. 

 

Your hands had fallen from the bars, your voice betrayed you with a moaning scream, and you can vaguely remember crumpling to the floor before it all faded to black. 

 

Now that you’re conscious enough to put all the faded colors back together, you’re awake to find you’ve been laid back down on the metal bed. However, when you try to sit up, you feel a strange discomfort that follows all your movements. 

 

And you’re not sure if you’ve gotten even more sensitive over the past couple of hours, but the cool metal lying underneath you feels a lot…  _ more  _ than before. When you look down, you find that it’s probably because you’re no longer wearing your prison garb. 

 

The cotton ensemble has been completely stripped from your body, leaving your skin openly exposed for the whole empty prison to see. What’s left to cover your body is made completely of leather straps and metal snaps. Red, perfectly matching the shade of those gloves that Akira knows drives you into unhinged insanity. 

 

You lift your chained hands up to run your fingers along the lines of the obscene excuse of an outfit. The thick red straps that round your hips and tug tight at your slit where it snakes between your thighs is cruelly strong, yet soft to the touch. Every time you try to adjust your sitting position, the tight leather digs into your skin just enough to make you want to squirm. It sends small hums of pleasure through you, but uncomfortably so. 

 

Rubbing yourself just a little bit against the metal bed is enough to confirm that the strap will dig into you, but it won’t appease you by any more. And getting your fingers through the sides will prove no small feat thanks to the thick surface that might as well have been tailor-made for you. 

 

That fucker put you in a chastity belt. 

 

It almost disgusts you how beautifully put together the garment is. Sleek, red leather with minimal embellishments but made of the highest quality that would make cows sob until morning. Much like you are now that you’re trying to stand up. 

 

Standing isn’t as agonizing as sitting, since you’re no longer stretching the leather tight against your most erogenous zones, but not by much. The smallest of movements it takes to stand cause your lips to lick up the length of the leather strap running between your legs as you adjust stances, and the fluidity is unfairly similar to how Akira’s gloved fingers feel when they run across you. 

 

“Help…” You choke out. You don’t know what else to say, or to do. After crying enough tears to fill a small well during your first couple of days here, you feel like you probably couldn’t get any more pathetic. So nothing else you say from here on could get worse, could it?

 

Stumbling over to the bars of your cell, you clutch onto them with more difficulty than you had before, your strength sapped from your body thanks to the concentrated heat from your core that’s been balling up like a newly formed star. “Help…” You call again. Wondering who would hear you, who would listen to you, yet knowing the answer anyway. 

 

Maybe you should’ve taken his help when he offered it. Maybe that really was your best chance at getting out of this alive. This is clearly his domain, and not even a single breath of yours will pass without him knowing. If you utter a single word that would upset him, he would know. You wonder what you would have to say to summon him here right now. 

 

Would he come if you said something spiteful? Would he hurt you if he did? Or would he just not come at all until he feels like it just to keep that power over you? What if you gave him something to come for? You know plenty of things that he likes for you to do, so maybe you could lure him in that way instead. 

 

And do what? Argue with him until you faint again? Or until he actually hurts you? 

 

As much as you’d like to think you’re not stupid, it isn’t likely that you’ll be able to outsmart Akira in his own lab. Or basement. Or whatever this place is. 

 

Still. Worth a shot. Not like you have anything better to do. 

 

Adjusting your hold on the bars, you slip your knee past the bar to step on the floor outside of the cell, pressing your tightly strapped breasts around the bar centered between them. And slowly, slow enough not to make yourself pass out by accident like last time, you brush the center of your hips against the bar. 

 

_ Gasp _ .

 

That’s the only sound you make. The first stroke of the growing conflagration that’s growling and roaring inside of you. With another soft roll of your hips against the bar, you feel the heat rise another degree and your voice hitch in your throat. 

 

It’s kind of good. 

 

You don’t know if it’s that goddamn hormonal spray or your own deprivation or just how disgustingly desperate you imagine yourself to look right now, but it feels good. Better than anything you’ve felt in weeks. All those worries about work and Akira and your friends all seem so minor compared to the intensive pressure building between your legs that needs to be relieved. 

 

“Fuck me, that’s good…” you mumble to yourself, not realizing your eyes have already fluttered closed. 

 

It’s so good. So fucking good. Amazing, even. You feel alive, like you’ve only experienced the thinnest surface shell of the world while stuck in your dank, sorry state of mind. If you were feeling so trapped all this time, why didn’t you just find freedom through this kind of mindless pleasure? 

 

“Oh… Oh…” You release air and noise from your mouth in the smallest puffs, being careful not to take yourself too far lest your body taps out before you decide you’ve had enough. 

 

And it is oh so very far from enough. The longer you rut yourself against this bar, smearing the metal dust against the leather strap trapping your cunt from the outside, the more the heat within you just builds. 

 

This belt dulls your sensitivity to what would otherwise be perfect ministrations to release, leaving you to simmer heat like a kettle without a spout. Even as you rub yourself harder against the prison bars, you can’t bring the pressure to an intensity that reaches your core. You’re once again trapped in shackles that give you only a wistful idea of what you could have, but won’t ever receive without paying an irreparable price. 

 

As you continue to paint yourself all over the cell bars, you glance down at your practically naked form, strapped tight in Akira’s shade of red like this getup is your own personalized collar and leash. 

 

You imagine how his hand would look on you right now, dressed in that matching leather glove and just running a finger along your face, tilting your chin up. Even this hallucination of him makes your blood boil hot in anger, but also -- as you still rock your hips against the cell -- in desperate need. And for some reason, you find yourself rubbing harder still, like if you try hard enough, the pressure against the metal will shave down the leather and free your aching cunt. 

 

But even then, you know that the bar wouldn’t be enough for you. Your body craves something more. Something so much more ample, sizable, astounding… Something hidden behind a long black coat. 

 

“Ugh…” 

 

Just the memory of Akira’s body against yours has you shuddering weakly against the cell door. If you focus on sculpting the exact shape and lines and veins and shades of Akira’s gloriously thick shaft in your head, you can already feel the salivation building in your mouth. And suddenly, your tongue flicks out into the open air, searching and molding to flesh that’s absent from your reality but overwhelming you with fantasy. 

 

You can feel your tongue flicking out of your lips and your throat trying to close around tasteless, empty air, but closing your eyes allows you to at least conjure an image of Akira’s cock so realistic that you swear you can taste it. You might even let a slurping noise slip out, you’re so into it. Pleasing this phantom Akira who looks down at you with proud eyes and combs gentle, rewarding, gloved fingers through your hair. 

 

“Oh…” You moan, rutting deeply against the bar, “Aki… ra… Mm.” 

 

Fuck!!! You’re  _ so  _ close to getting close, but you really can’t get past this plateau of dulled pleasure with this damned belt locking you up tighter than a straight jacket. “Aki… Akira…” You beg, somehow managing to put full syllables together. “Akira… Akira… Akira…” 

 

You chant and chant his name like a prayer for him to come, or like you’re summoning a demon through a dark ritual. You really couldn’t give a fuck which one. What you need right now is for that man to come here and take over your entire body, touch you until you’ve broken down and released all of this tension like a dam. 

 

It’s starting to hurt, all the sexual pain you’re building up. Tears begin to run down your face as you continue to plead for some form of relief, to escape from this torturous, sexless, empty chamber. “Akira…!” You cry out into the empty prison, still somehow holding onto the bars, though your strength to rub yourself against the bars has begun to sap away. 

 

At some point, your limbs lose the strength to hold you up too, and you’ve slid down to your knees. Perhaps, at another point, you even doze off, clutching the bar still stuck between your legs and just resting your face along your forearm. 

 

You can only guess because the next time you come to, he’s standing there before you, like a mirage come to life. “Akira?” You croak, wondering if he’s really here or just another figment of your artificially lust-driven delusions. 

 

“My, your beauty is unmatched in this form, darling.” Akira says with the slightest smile. “Have you been waiting for me?” He leans down enough to tilt your chin up with his fingers, letting you meet his eyes since you’re out of strength to lift your own head. 

 

“Yes…” You whisper. You don’t know why, but you know it’s the right answer. 

 

“Have I kept you waiting long?” 

 

“Yes.” You groan, pleading for him to make another move on you. Put his hands on you, any way, any how. Please.  _ Please _ . 

 

Akira huffs in a small laugh, shaking his head just slightly at you, “Even in this state, you still have cheek. But do tell, what is it that you desire the most right now?” 

 

“You. Only you.” You somehow find the strength to remove your hand from the bar -- now stiff from clutching so hard to it for so long -- and hold onto his wrist for support. Yes, you want to hold onto him, to something human and familiar, warm and inviting. Not this hard, unrelenting metal bar that won’t do a thing to appease your hard work. “Akira…” 

 

“Mmm.” He likes the sound of that, it seems. His smile grows just a bit wider and he nods, “So you want my help? My touch?” He runs a slow finger down the line of your jaw, and it’s more exhilarating than anything you’ve ever felt. A deep shiver runs along your entire body, and you want to come from it right now. 

 

“Yes.” You breathe, “Help me.”  _ By shoving your cock so deep inside of me that I can taste it in the back of my throat. _

 

“And what would you be willing to offer me in return for my help?” 

 

_ Anything _ . “Anything.” 

 

“Is that so?” He smiles gently, cupping the side of your jaw and sliding his thumb across your tear-dried cheek. The more he adds to his touch, the more you feel like you’re being rewarded. Your motivation to please skyrockets as images of Akira relieving you flicker through your brain like a film reel. “I want you to pledge your loyalty to me.” 

 

“Pledge…” You parrot, trying to make sense of the word in your nonsensical cock-filled brain, “... my loyalty…?” 

 

“That’s right, darling. Swear your loyalty to me,” he swipes his red leathered thumb across your lip agonizingly slow, “And what you wish for,” he slips just the tip of his thumb past your lips, and your tongue cannot swipe at it fast enough. You have never, ever remembered the taste of leather being so delicious. “... can be yours.” 

 

“Lo… yalty…” You repeat again. But no matter how hard you try to understand it, you can’t think about anything else other than sucking on this leather glove until you can taste flesh. “Mmmnn…” You moan deeply, trying to get more of his thumb into your mouth. 

 

“Hmm, you seem to like that, sweetheart.” Akira pulls his fingers away from your face, leaving your mouth painfully empty. “Do you like it enough to promise me what I asked for?” The smile on his face is manipulatively patient as he pulls his glove back on properly. 

 

“Promise…” You blink almost tiredly, weak from the taste of leather still in your mouth. “Loyal…?” 

 

You barely understand what you’re spewing from your mouth right now because you  _ should  _ be giving him the answer he wants, but you’re just babbling on about whatever this ‘loyalty’ is that he’s asking for. Who gives a fuck when you could be -- _ should be  _ \-- getting dick right now? 

 

“It’s incredibly important to me, love.” Akira straightens to explain, “Without loyalty, everything falls to shambles. If my closest allies cannot be trusted, how could I possibly build and live in the world I’ve sought?” 

 

He comes closer to you, squatting to meet your eye level, if not just slightly above it. “My darling, you’ve tested your loyalties to me more than once already. If I’m to give you what you want, you must promise me you’ll only look at me.”

 

“Only… you…” Yeah, you like the sound of that. That sounds completely reasonable. 

 

“That’s right, only me. You won’t need to look at anyone else, speak to them, listen to them, or hear from them. You only need me.” His voice coos the most enchanting lullaby. And his fingers that graze at your thigh only serve to make your body more insistent on agreeing to his terms. You need those hands closer to you, touching you where you ache for him the most. 

 

“Only… you…” You loll towards him, losing your strength to balance yourself. But somehow catching onto something he said earlier. “I was… not loyal…?” Is that how you got into this mess in the first place? What kind of heinous crime did you commit against a man so powerful, so beautiful? 

 

“You surely did test me. Normally, that would be adequate for punishment, but I’ve made an exception for you, dear.” He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, and just the smallest of strokes from his hand is enough to send you in shivers again. “Because you’re very special to me.” 

 

“Special?” You sigh, smiling giddily. You’re special to him. That makes you stupidly happy. 

 

But there’s something else that’s tickling at your brain. You’ve been crying in agony for so long, but he hasn’t answered your call. What kind of exception to punishment is this? Is it extra punishment? Specialized torture? To tell the truth, you don’t completely hate it, but you have been in a lot of pain, and you definitely do feel like you’ve been punished beyond repair. What’ll he do to you? 

 

All of these thoughts somehow manage to form in your rotting mind, but all that comes out of your hazy mouth is, “Punishment…?” 

 

“Yes, punishment. And unfortunately, not the pleasant kind.” Akira caresses your thigh in larger strokes, “For those who challenge their loyalties, punishment can be severe. Some may not get away with just a broken limb.” He sighs. 

 

“Broken…” You echo his sigh. That would be painful… Maybe even more painful than what you’re going through now. If you broke anything, how would you be able to take in Akira’s body completely? It’d be a crime to yourself. 

 

Imagine, unable to move as you want against the man you want because you have an injured leg, or arm, or hand, or… wrist. 

 

Wait. 

 

You try to breathe normally for just a moment so you can think clearly, connect the right pieces together. “You… You…” He wouldn’t… Surely… “Ryuji…” Your eyes snap open and you back your head away an inch to look at Akira. Really look at him. Try to remember who he is to you. 

 

The man your body craves for every second of the day. The man you think about hour after hour. The man who keeps you waiting for him in a cell. The man who… captured you. Your captor… Your prison warden. 

 

Akira doesn’t look happy anymore at the sound of someone else’s name. In fact, his face that was full of expression just seconds ago has fallen into an impenetrable mask once again at the mention of Ryuji’s name. 

 

“You… You didn’t…” 

 

Unmoving silence. Your answer is right there. Louder than you can bear. 

 

“How--” You gasp, the taste of leather now bitter on your tongue with shock, about to choke you. “How could you do that?? To your own friend?!” 

 

Akira only proves he hasn’t turned to stone when he blinks slowly and stands again. Above you, far, far overhead. Where you can’t seem to reach. Not like this. And now that you’ve come to realization, you don’t want to. 

 

Adjusting his gloves once more, Akira takes a step back, creating some feasible distance between the two of you that your body screams at with wet, hot upset. “It was not a matter of friendship. Ryuji’s greed tried to eclipse his loyalty to me. He tried to take what was mine.” 

 

Ryuji?? The sweetest boy you’ve ever known? 

 

“Oh god…” You fall to your bottom on the cell floor, putting your face in your hands, “Ryuji… He… He…” 

 

Got hurt. Because of you… 

 

“Should know his priorities now.” Akira says matter-of-factly before stepping forward to place a hand on a cell bar, looking between the hard, metal lines down at you. “How about you, love? Do you know yours?” 

 

You think hard, swiping at the foggy thought process your aching body mugs up for you. You think about what you’ve been subjected, why it’s happened, and especially about how you can possibly get out of it. You take a look at yourself, stripped of all color but his favorite red and think harder than you’ve ever had to, in complete survival mode. 

 

“I sure do.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the velvet room arc ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


End file.
